


Footsteps

by Küchenhexe (Kuchenhexe)



Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuchenhexe/pseuds/K%C3%BCchenhexe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was the pointman, he was walking on equal ground with the white men in the platoon. He was the one they looked to, followed, and trusted to be sharp and canny and keep their butts alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footsteps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 31_Days, "Footsteps are mosaics of possibility"

> _A four week operation when each step could mean your last one on two legs,_  
>  _It was a war within yourself._  
>  _But you wouldn't let your mates down til they had you dusted off,_  
>  _So you closed your eyes and thought about something else._  
>  \- "I Was Only Nineteen", Redgum

 

Specialist Marvin Johnson of Bravo Company was the platoon's best pointman. He found himself simultaneously loving and hating the job, and both dreading and hoping Zeke would order him at point. If someone else was walking, they might miss something vital which Johnson wouldn't, something that could get them all killed. It was a job he was damn good at, and he took pride in being trusted with that responsibility.

Some of the brothers back at Firebase Ladybird ribbed on him for it, but this was one issue where even Taylor would tell them to shut their holes. He wasn't the primary pointman because he was black. He wasn't put in the position of the highest risk because the man saw him as expendable. Maybe the higher ups off the field did, but both Johnson and Taylor knew damn well that had nothing to do with why Zeke constantly picked Johnson above anyone else, and had him training the cherries how to do the job.

It was because Zeke didn't want to get killed, just like the rest of them. It was because the sarge trusted Johnson with his own life. In a strange way, 'Nam was better than the world, because back in the world, where could you find a white man putting his life and health entirely in the hands of a black man, without a second thought or a moment's hesitation?

They hated being in country, and counted the days until they were short, then counted the short days until they could grab the bird back to the world. But for all the hell that came with the tours, it had that small compensation. When he was the pointman, he was walking on equal ground with the white men in the platoon. He was the one they looked to, followed, and trusted to be sharp and canny and keep their butts alive.

It was one of the most dangerous jobs one could have on even a routine poop-and-snoop, humping through the boonies. It was extremely stressful, and for all the moments Johnson found himself hating it, there were just as many when he felt in the groove, in his element, and completely at home.

Each footstep had to be watched. Every inch of ground had to be evaluated before he put forth another step. All the trees, from ground level clear up to the canopy, had to be scanned. Every sound had to be heard and analyzed. And he had to do all of this within a reasonable span of time, keep the platoon moving, and he couldn't miss a thing or it might spell the end.

It was hotter than yesterday, and the humidity was thick enough that Taylor had asked the sarge if he wanted them to start hacking through the air the way they would sometimes have to hack through dense jungle growth. Sweat refused to evaporate, trickling down his face and neck and soaking his fatigues, and insects buzzed around him, tickling his face as they landed. 

Johnson closed his eyes briefly in weary annoyance, as he let go of his rifle with one hand and wiped the sweat off his face. They had been out patrolling for hours, and were still two miles from the base. Nothing had happened, which was good in its own way. They had found nothing, which could be good, or it could be very bad. All in all, it was an extremely boring patrol, par for the course for the army.

 _Long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror._ Johnson had heard the description of war before, and truer words had never been spoken.

He grabbed his rifle again, and lifted his foot to take another step when he remembered belatedly he hadn't checked the trail ahead.

That was close. Too damned close. He lifted his hand and made a fist as he knelt to the ground, trying to ignore the sick twisting of fear in his stomach and grateful for the chance to hide how badly he was sure his legs were shaking at the moment. The row of soldiers, one by one, passed along the raised fist, dropping to one knee and looking around with wary, watchful eyes as Zeke and the L-T moved up to his position.

"Wires, sarge," Johnson told Zeke, pointing to the one he not only almost stepped on, but three more cleverly concealed on the trail ahead.

"You've got good eyes, Johnson," Zeke said, and he couldn't make himself acknowledge the compliment. He hated these moments, when he would almost make a wrong step. He knew what Zeke would tell him, that almost only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades, but they both knew that the claymores attached to the wires were just as good as grenades for an almost.

But fortunately, Zeke knew better than to expect any sort of response, and his attention had already shifted over to Goldman. "What do you think, L-T?"

"It's going to be dicey, maneuvering through these wires, and the next patrol that comes through might not be so lucky," Goldman said. He was silent a moment, glancing back at the men who depended on the two of them to keep them all alive. "Take care of it, Zeke."

"Yes, sir." The sarge glanced at Johnson, and he knew Zeke could read the fatigue in his eyes. With a hand to the shoulder conveying a silent message of comfort, Zeke turned back to the platoon. "Purcell, you're with me."

The farm boy from Montana moved up to the front, and Johnson closed his eyes to get his nerves back under control while Purcell helped Zeke disarm the wires. Every footstep was a possibility of going back home in a box, or worse yet, without any legs at all. He'd never missed one yet, but the odds of even one tour were against all of them.

While he waited, Marvin Johnson mentally counted off far too many remaining days in country.

**\- end**


End file.
